


candle-eyed

by borlaaq



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Candles has DID, Judgment!Candles, Other, Salt and Candles are binary stars, Spoilers for the Salt Ending of SMEN, Worldbuilding, spoilers for homecoming es
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borlaaq/pseuds/borlaaq
Summary: The White could kill you. Salt tells you this. You didn’t believe it. You laugh. “Judgements don’t kill each other. That is for lesser beings.”
Relationships: Mr Apples | Mr Hearts & Mr Veils (Fallen London), Mr Veils/Mr Candles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	candle-eyed

**Author's Note:**

> lyrics are from firewall by les friction 
> 
> there will be a sequel to this covering after candles death and more about eaten and salt and the white but it was already so long i decided to just post this part for now!

_ The stars are blind, my love. _

—

The Kingdom is cold. The White’s Law is frozen but not fragile. This is a fact you worship. 

But it never felt like home, despite being born there. His Light sinks into your golden bones, strokes your own flickering flame. He feeds off everything in His Kingdom, even His allies. It’s just a Constellation at first but the White wants it to be a Conjunction someday. 

(Back then you do not understand His obsession with Light, do not realize the extent He will go to stop the Liberation.)

Your Twin feeds you with its own Light, always pulls you back into its Orbit when you go too far. But you want to see more of the High Wilderness. Sometimes you extend yourself too much and come back to Salt shivering and weak. Its gravity holds you close until you can break it again. It’s never suffocating — the weight is comfortable. 

Salt's gravity is unlike the pull the White has. The White's is dense and tight. Tugs everything to Him. The White is old and hungry. But Salt and you are younger, bowing to the brighter Judgement. That's how it is. How it always has been. How it always will be. Unless the Chains are broken.

(He could kill you. Salt tells you this. You didn’t believe it. You laugh. “Judgements don’t kill each other. That is for lesser beings.”)

The White comes to your section of the Wilderness often. Salt eclipses you from Him. “Such dim Light. Why not let go?” He says.

Salt’s nebula tightens around you. Your Twin does not respond to the White’s goading. “Do you have a mission for me?” Salt asks instead. You pretend to be occupied with inscribing sigils into your Eggshell.

(You can’t make Laws that Are, only that Are Not. You always have been a paradox.)

You feel His Judgement on you instead, studying you. “Yes. I need to know how the Merchant King is fairing. In secret, of course.”

“I am your spymaster.” Salt reminds Him. The old Star simply smirks but His gaze stays on you.

“Runt.” He addresses you now. Your Light shudders slightly. “Why don’t you come stay at my Palace while your Twin is gone?”

— 

This is the reminder: falling.

Had it been a death, or a birth? You aren’t sure. He had wanted your secrets. The Egg you held in your hands and wrapped your warm candle Light around. You shaped it but He wanted it. It had been weak, just like you, but it is yours. It is all you had. All you have. All you are. Then, now. 

You overhear this in the Palace of Poisoned Crystal: “What is worth more? My aid or your own blood?” “Would you make me choose?” The lights of the whole Palace twinkled as He laughed. 

You decide to make the decision for your Twin. It had given you enough, fed its own Light into you to keep you from guttering out when you were young. This cold place is not kind to candles and their runtery. You strip off your excess Light, remove your crown and robes of Gold Law. Your Egg has hatched not long ago but it still needs you. You draw a finger over the polished floor. You see your reflection ripple. You draw a sigil. You step through the mirror—

— and you  _ fall _ . 

You had always been the White’s Runt but here, in your world, in  _ Parabola  _ — you grow wings not of Light and Law but of flesh and bone. You lose sight of colors and everything shrinks smaller and smaller. You feel everything you ever had and ever will all at once. Past, present, future; this is your Event Horizon. This is everything. This is nothing. 

(Perhaps if you paid attention you would have tasted the lacre, felt the teeth and knives. Perhaps you could have been better prepared.)

You toss your divinity to the cruel void and you forget about the politics.

You had never felt real pain until then. You had never felt _ real _ until then.

—

_ You will learn to crawl under oceans above. _

—

(Later, when He finds out what your Twin has done, He tells you: “Go down. You need only take a little. My aid is cheap. You will have what I promised.”)

—

You were bright-eyed and naive, you know that now. You wanted nothing more than to help. So you practiced forbidden arts; amalgamy, aberration, anything that you thought could improve the lives of others. 

(Perhaps you damned more than you helped. But at that moment you thought you were giving them all second chances.)

You adapt quickly to your new form and your new status. And when the time comes you take the new title of Exile and Sinner easily. So be it, you think; you can't make Chains, you can only break them. And these titles are yours. 

When you hear Her tale, of course you volunteer. You find others like you to help, too. It's not your responsibility, but you take up the mantle. You find other outcasts and exiles and sinners and you practice clandestiny. You go under the Light you once served Court with. You make the Convocation of Runts.

She glows with approval. He never gave you that much. 

You tell of bargains and compacts and escape. Your fellows nod and discuss. You tell of a wound in the sky that will let you hide. One seems hesitant to hide from the Light but She eases all of you. 

“All shall be well.” She promises. “Seven Cities time. That is all you must give. Then your sins will be forgotten.” Her attention shifts to the blue-eyed one. “Even yours.”

It shifts awkwardly, lowering its cowled head like it is used to the weight of a crown.

You do not ask if yours can also be forgiven but you do find that, for a time, She keeps her promise. All is well, even as you remembered what it was like to fall (and thus crash and burn) again.

—

The first descent, the unnaming of flight, that was forgiven and all shall be well. So It said.

—

Trying to translate names to human tongue is unnecessarily difficult. It's easier for some.  _ An Illusion that May or May Not Become Real, Easily Shattered _ . Humans call those Mirrors so it shall be.  _ To be Forged Through Unyielding Conflict _ becomes Iron.  _ The Production of Order Through Conflagration _ became Fires.

But—  _ To Conceal One's True Nature _ ? You discuss for hours. This one is proud and annoying. It wants to keep the original meaning, of course. To Curators names are important. They earn them based on their collections.

But its hoard is two-faced. Fabric and violence? You clench your jaw as you think. It has been turning down any suggestions, seemingly pouting at the very idea it has to take up a name in a lesser language.

Finally you give it a word like Veils. You tell it the two meanings, because human languages are full of double meanings. Its ears twitch. It repeats the word like it is tasting it. It smacks its lips. It doesn't look as disgusted as it did when saying other human words. 

It, Mr Veils, nods. "What about you, then? We can't call you…" it fumbles for a word, "Small." 

You had completely forgotten about yourself. You've never named yourself. You are just The Runt.  _ A Light Who Burns Too Weak _ . 

The one now called Cups ( _ That Which Is Empty, Whose Purpose Is To Be Filled _ ) speaks up. "Candles. Humans use the word to describe things that are only used to give light. They aren't used for cooking or heat."

"Oh," you say. "Yes. I rather like that."

— 

_ That force will fuel its hate. _

_ When it drains your soul it will flood the gate. _

— 

If Parabola taught you how to fall, then Axile teaches you how to drown. 

And it’s ironic really. Because Parabola is yours and Axile— 

“Another planet damned.” Mr Wines sighs. It taps its claws nervously against where the two of you are perched on the Bazaar. 

You look past Axile, to the White Star that burns in the distance. It grows closer, as fast as a Judgement can. It's cold here, but the water on the surface of Axile is already starting to bubble under the increase of Celestial Attention.

“They shouldn’t have broken the Chain.” Wines continues. “Especially not under such a hungry Monarch.” 

“One way or another, all Axile’s children were spawned for sacrifice,” you respond quietly. You stand up. There’s another sacrifice you can give them. Another deal you can broker. You have always been curious to a fault. You care too much. You hadn’t even arrived at the Neath before this causes you to draw the ire of your new coworkers. 

You trace a sigil against Her shell.

“What are you doing?” It’s Veils who speaks now, tone full of vitriol. 

“We need more allies, correct?”

Cups looks up from where it is tending to Mirrors’ wounds (they’re old ones but still Cups tries to mend its tattered wings and deformed face as one might fix a broken bowl). The Bazaar slows to a shuddering stop. 

"I'll be fast." You say.

"I'm coming along," Veils growls. "This is foolish and someone has to watch you." 

Iron pushes itself between the two of you, drawing its sword. You feel rather like a Judgement again, with them acting as guards. (You expect that from Iron, even if you are not sure if it knows who you are anymore.) It's an uncomfortable feeling. 

You huff, spreading your wings to fly down to the flooded planet. 

You are breaking the Chain. You know that. You no longer have Permission to forge links. Iron and Veils don't say anything as you hand out Amber, as you Shape flesh. More sins added to your name. But the Flukes were once loyal to your Twin and the water is salty and strong. You usher the newly made Shapelings into the Bazaar and the greatest Flukes gather all the Amber they can carry. You instruct Veils and Iron to help. (Veils rolls its eyes. Iron nods.)

You dive under the water, only surfacing when your lungs burn. You aren’t used to needing to breathe, not used to the crushing weight, but you keep at it. The Flukes do not want to leave, do not want to lose themselves to smaller forms, but their souls will be fuel if they don’t leave soon. The White will not forgive these acts of Treachery. (Salt is not there to protect them. You are. You have to do this.)

When Iron leads the Greater Flukes towards the Bazaar, you work the lessers into something smaller. You teach them more advanced ways to work light and amber and change. You teach them how to reforge weak links in the Chain. Your fur drips from sea water and the storm lashes at your face. The salt stings your eyes. Just a few more. Just as many as you can. 

(Once, you ushered Devils in through the Glass. You remember teaching them how to plant roses in the new soil and you used your light to help them grow. The Serpents sang your praises and that's most like a god you had ever felt.)

When your mind wanders and your fingers weave weak Light, Veils grabs your arm, teeth bared. It tries to pull you towards the Bazaar. Amber falls from your hands into the ocean and you watch the tide take it away. When you look back at Veils, its stars pulse cold-white and its face is torn between fear and anger. You pull out another piece of amber and carve shapes of tentacles with your claws. 

“Don’t be a fool!” Veils hisses. “We are out of time.”

You start to argue but Veils draws its hand back. You barely have any time to try and comprehend what is happening before its hand, and thus claws, rake your cheek. It burns but you know it could have hit you harder. You don’t even recoil. You see your blood drip to the ground. The tide laps at it and the gold floats on the surface briefly like oil. Liquid sunlight. You bring a hand up to the cut, bring your hand away to look at your blood.

You hadn't bled in this form until now. You realize you are more Sun than you thought. 

Veils is staring and you wipe your hands off on a nodule of amber. Neither of you say anything but it falls into place behind you, merging with your shadow, as you return to the Bazaar. Iron drops its head in a single nod when you return and you pause to look out over your new group of exiles and outcasts. You hear the Stone Pigs rumble and let out a breath.

“All shall be well.” You tell the Flukes that fly besides you, and the newly made Rubbery Men attempt to replicate the sounds in the form of song. It's mournful but you join in. 

(Later, you will hear the story of Noah's Arc, and you will laugh.)

—

_ Deep beneath the light, a spark will now ignite. _

—

The second, a shrug and a time. It was fair, It was fair.

—

"Hideous, disgraceful creatures!" Shrieks Wines, when it fails at making a drink out of Amber. 

(Apples is having more luck.)

"I believe you fell farther when you fell from grace." You hum with a smile.

Wines flounders. It tries to hide its origins. You do not. It changes the topic instead, “I do not see why we have to help them with their Forbidden Arts.”

“The Bazaar made them a deal.”

“Yes, but what do  _ we _ get out of it?”

You shake your head. “Everything has a use, Wines.” You stand up and lower your head. “I’ll leave you to it then. Cups is almost ready to head to the Surface.”

“You plan to bring down a city already? We have barely had time to prepare!” 

“Well, the agreements will take time, but there is a couple that needs our help.”

“You can’t save everyone, Candles!” Wines whispers harshly. “If you let Apples go through with its plan, I don’t think the human will be saved how you envision it to be.”

You close your eyes and sigh. “I have to  _ try _ .”

—

It is fair, She tells you.  _ She _ is fair, She tells you.

And all is well.

(You trust so blindly. You never learned the deeper Mysteries. You never learned the Truth. But you will.)

You look out at what the Now-King-Once-Traveller has become and your gut twists. A towering monstrous man of Clay. The shard from the Mountain impaled crudely into his chest. He is no longer human and he harbors a grudge for his once love. (Is all love destined to fail like this? To fall apart in ones hands like clay?) 

Apples fidgets with its claws, moss has grown on its fur from exposure to Stone's Light. You sigh.

"I didn't mean for this to happen." It tells you softly. It's pursuit of immortality is what led it here and it's trying. You understand. It does not regret the mistake made to the human, but it looks at you, velvet ears back. It is afraid of  _ you _ . (Somehow that hurts the worst.) They think you a leader and are afraid of your disapproval. 

"I know." You reply and turn to give it a small smile. You pluck a flower from one of its horns. "Come, we have a City to tend to." 

Apples gives an unsteady nod. 

—

How funny that the one assigned to delicate fabric is the least delicate when it comes to saying what is on its mind.

You aren't blind. You know Veils has a hoard of more than what it lets on. You also know of its crimes. But you are drawn to the two-faced facade it puts on. You have always been curious to a fault. 

(You are starting to realize people can lie and you don't know what to do with that information. It makes no sense to you. What they have to gain from such things? Did even Judgements lie?)

"Will you think before you act just once?" Veils swats the candle from your hand, putting out the flame. Perhaps bringing a fire into its room of silkworm cocoons wasn't the brightest idea but you still find yourself laughing at its stern look of disapproval.

"Sorry, Veils." You offer sheepishly. "It's just so dark in here! I thought I was helping."

"And start a feeding frenzy among the frostmoths?" Its nostrils flare and it crosses its arms. "What do you want?" 

“Oh!” You extract the candle from its claws, taking note how it had held it just gently enough to not to damage the wax, despite the violent way it grabbed it from you. “I was just checking in. Seeing if you needed anything.”

It eyes you skeptically. You don’t blame it. It's not typical for Curators to worry about each other.

This is not a flock. (But you want it to be, don't you? You want a  _ family. _ ) You’ve gotten the same look from several of the others but Veils’ gaze seems more venomous. There is an awkward silence between the two of you. You don’t feel comfortable trying to break it. 

“Why?” Veils asks finally, waving a claw. “Even down here, I know it is not the Day of the Bargain.” 

“No, but I want everyone to be at their best.” You pause, cock your head to the side. “You don’t have to follow those Laws down here. But you didn’t exactly follow them before either, yes?”

The fur around its neck puffs up and the stars on its face flare up. “Watch your tongue, runt.”

You bite back a laugh. “You’ve been working hard on the clothing trade. Thank you for that, but don’t push yourself, alright?” 

Veils doesn't reply. 

You spend the next days making candles that smell like the High Wilderness for it but it only seems to grow more irritable as the days pass. It’s upsetting for you, actually. It’s barely into the First City and Veils is already getting antsy. The rest are doing fine! You can’t help but feel responsible for them all. You are the one who personally recruited most of them. 

But Veils’ back is hunched more than most. It bares its teeth easily. It flexes its claws. You see all the details of a hunter in its prime and you still press closer. It is dangerous but you think you can tame it. You think you can make a pet out of the Vake. It should be easy. Gilded chains and a golden cage. You could make it comfortable. You could ease it.

(You are dancing with damnation. You orbit it, forever spinning around one another, never to touch. Parallels. Similar yet different. But in the mirror, perhaps the lines will curve just enough to collide.)

—

_ And you will see me now. This is my world now. _

— 

You offer Veils honey when the candles don’t work, when it pulls against its silken bonds. You have a Kingdom there. It is small but it is nestled close to the High Wilderness like a lover. It is yours and you open it up to Veils. 

There, when the Isle winks, you see the Vake unfurl from Mr Veils. And it is beautiful. Its teeth and claws glint in the light, dangerous and monstrous. Its wings arch up the sky and its muscles ripple. You barely even know fear, barely even know morality, but Veils triggers an instinct in you that you lean into. 

Veils makes you feel weak. Veils makes you feel real. 

This starts a ritual, a dance, a Chain of events. You bring Veils to Parabola as often as you can, and for times when you are busy, you show it how to mix its blood with honey so that Parabola bends to its will when it goes alone. 

_ This is a Charity _ , it hisses to you, only once. After, it no longer complains. You suppose another sin stacked against you means nothing. Your very existence is wrong, anyhow. You think Veils starts to realize that.

—

So, you fall again. Not the kind you are used to. No, instead you fall in Love. Too fast, too hard. You hadn't meant to. But you aren't used to your own feelings being so condensed. You are small now, smaller even. A Runt is always a Runt. 

You lived your whole life suffocating under the politically correct rules of the Stars. There are agreements, spoken and unspoken. Rudeness is not tolerated except when done on the sly. Everything is stiff and no one says what they really mean. 

— Of course you fall in love with the first one to insult you to your face.

But when Veils returns to you, covered in blood and laughing, your heart skips a beat.

(If this is love, you understand why humans would sell their city for it.)

You, embarrassingly, don’t know much about Curator culture. Veils had brought you plenty of dead animals and it often spread its wings for you. You woke up with gifts at your door, fabric and clothing. This is strange to you, especially from one such as the Vake. You finally ask Mirrors about it when the two of you are returning from the Surface after looking for a Second City. 

Mirrors laughs at you and it sounds like glass clinking. “Veils is  _ courting _ you, my king!”

You flush, both from the words and the title. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“The Fingerkings worship you and so shall I.” Mirrors replies with a shrug. 

You know you can’t change its mind so instead you ask, “How would I go about… responding in kind to the courting, then?”

The look it gives you is downright  _ scheming _ . 

—

(Even the Chain has a Curve to each of its links. But broken, the Chain makes a Parabola, open faced. Is a Parabola but one half of an Eclipse? And then, what would be needed as the other half, in order to blot out a Sun?

There's a revelation here: the White would kill His kin rather than risk a Darkening.)

—

When the love stories of the First City starts to slow, when all the citizens are old, you start sending your co-workers out to scout the Surface. The Bazaar has a strict set of criteria for a city and the First had the unfortunate incident with the Creditor. But you believe it can only get better from here. 

You believe in the good in people. You are helping people! The Bazaar, the Masters, the Cities. You are proud of that work. 

Veils goes to the Surface often. You meet it in a bustling market, where it is deep in a match of Twenty Squares with an older Gentleman. You watch from a distance, tucked deep into your robes as you wait for it to finish.

There is something about the one Veils is playing against that sets you in edge. Something about him is too bright. He hurts to look at. You focus instead on their game. 

Veils is winning, and something like pride wells up in your breast. 

The old man looks at you and his gaze feels heavy and cold. His eyes are like stars. You jerk back, nearly tripping. You feel dizzy and sick.

You don't understand. You can't understand. Your mind will melt trying to understand. 

He smiles at you. Polite. Calculating.

— You are in the woods at winter. Snow is falling. You hear the crunch of footsteps. Everything is muted.

— You are at the Avid Horizon. A new name is carved into the rocks, signalling arrival. The name burns. 

— Veils' hand is on your shoulder. "Candles. You're early." 

You blink up at it and then look back towards the table. The old man is gone. "Who—" Your throat feels tight and you clear it.

"Just a Great Game contact." It says, and then adds, "I didn't think you played."

"I don't." You say quickly. Your voice has an edge to it that you aren't used to. You don't play. Not anymore and never again. Veils lowers its cowled head in a slight nod. 

Later, you catch it standing in the sunlight, trying to convince the Law to give it the illusion of a human. Veils does not serve this Judgement, not technically, but it still melds to Veils, gifts it this. 

You swallow down an emotion that is definitely  _ not _ jealousy. 

But even in the guise of a human, Veils is dangerous and beautiful. You slip away before it notices you. 

—

_ They come to your dreams with illusion. They come to bring shape to your mind. _

—

You learn some tricks of your own, of how Curators court their partners, and of the culture itself. You are at awe of how complex the species is. The White had always told you Curators were mindless animals until they were Exalted into Masters, but you find this is far from the truth. 

Curators have existed even before the Judgements took their place at the top of the Chain and it only is reasonable that their culture is based on instinct, but they are far from mindless. 

They are much more social than you had thought, although they only come together on certain Days. And courting itself is… a rather extravagant affair. So much so you find yourself excited by the process. They don’t mate for life, and this doesn’t bother you. They are too nomadic and long lived for that. Their flocks are often changing so attachment can be dangerous. (This, while sad, is something you can understand.)

You admire the amount of pride Veils puts into courting you. It offers you trades for the fats it gets from its kills. It also enjoys showing off to you, both its hoard and its physical prowess. Perhaps it’s the instinct that you inherited when you fell, but you cannot help but notice that Veils is... well,  _ attractive _ . 

But you do wonder if it is simply doing it because you remind it of the lost Starlight it craves. You decide that you won’t dwell on that, and instead start planning how to return the advances. Charity is a sin after all, even in these matters, so instead you offer it a discount. This is a bit of a scandalous choice, and Veils looks at you deviously when you do. 

“Hunt with me.” It says, pocketing the honey it had just bought from you.

You close up your stall, grab your own vial of honey, and follow it to its quarters to dream. It pricks its finger and a drop of its blood falls into the honey. You both drink it down. When you arrive in the Not-Kingdom, its hoard of violence is laid out before you. It stretches on and on. The whole time you explore it, Veils’ gaze never leaves you.

Later, you groom it as it flays its kill and every so often, it hands you a strip of meat. Later, when the two of you are basking in the Cosmogone light of Parabola, you trace the sigil for ‘An Orbit, Fondly Remembered’ onto its wing. It responds by turning to you and kissing you with teeth and tongue.

— 

The third, oh the rage at the deceptions of sand. All of us were, all of us, and now all of us will.

—

The First City starts to dry out. You knew it would.

But you and Mirrors have found a promising Second City. Sand and sun stretch out all around you. It's hot, but the city is nestled against a river like a lover. 

Her husband is poisoned. A snake bite, you explain to the others. 

They call their rulers Pharaohs, adds Mirrors in excitement. The word is strange on its tongue but its eyes are bright like a glass. 

You tell of the cats, of how humans have learned of Parabola now and these ones have even created hand mirrors. You explain how easy it would be to cure the Pharaoh. 

Perhaps both Mirrors and you are enamored. Perhaps you rush into it. Perhaps you aren't being as careful as you should be. 

But the Bazaar is restless. She is still healing from Her Surgery to remove Destiny's Engine but yet She calls on you constantly for updates. You are starting to think She doesn't trust you. Did She get less stories than She anticipated from the First? 

She won't tell you the details and you do not pry. It is, however, uncomfortable. You want to be useful. She has put Her faith in you. All of you are still trying to learn. Disappointment is a rather new word to every single one of you. This weighs heavy on you. 

(All of you are starting to realize that Her goal may be impossible. Is this a death sentence then? No. No. You won't think like that. All Shall Be Well.) 

Once you have approval from the others, and a plan, you take the agreement to the Surface with Mirrors. It's chiseled into stone like the Ten Commandments. It's carried between the two of you like a holy relic. On it is the Deal for a City. A Promise. Your signature sits heavy, awaiting the other that will steal the Cities fate.

("They sold it too easy," says Fires, later. 

"I don't trust this. I'm going to keep an eye on them," says Veils.)

—

Sometimes you can forget about your deficiencies. 

When Veils calls you  _ Runt _ it sounds more like a pet name than a mockery. The two of you share a Spire now. (Wines and Spices share one as well, and Cups has made a door between its own and Mirrors'.) Apples sometimes joins you and Veils. It's nice to see, even if the love stories shared by your co-workers are not worth as much. 

Here, you can pretend you have a family. 

You know, somewhere in the back of your mind, that if it ever came to it, you would be the first to go. That is a fact you've always known. A fact you've worshiped. You are, and always have been, a Runt. And while even the Runt has its uses (because everything has uses), you do not want to find out how much you are worth.

(You do not know what the White had in plan for you.)

But for now, when Veils sings softly as it sews and you braid wicks next to it, you don't think about that. Both of you are kept busy these days. The new citizens of the Second City aren't used to the dark and the cold. They need new clothes and candles. 

"Do you think you could make a tunic for Maahes?" You ask, trying to hide your smile. You and the cat had grown close, much to Veils' chagrin. 

"You just had to befriend the ugliest cat, didn't you?" Veils huffs. 

"It's not ugly!" You try to defend.

"Cats are supposed to have fur."

"There's plenty of cats that don't have hair. It's just the type they are."

"My apologies. You just had to befriend  _ one _ of the ugliest cats." Veils is smirking now, unable to suppress a grin. 

You laugh as you nudge it with your shoulder. It gives a playful growl and grabs you around the waist, tugging you into its lap. 

(The White cannot reach you here.)

—

(He knew a Runt's nature to go against the Chain. Your Twin had always been an experiment. A test. 

Judgements cannot see the Neath.

But part of you is there. You just have to 

reach.)

—

One of the sisters comes to you just after the Fall. She tells you: "What if there was a way to remember before? To ease their suffering even a little?"

When Veils isn't home by the time you fall asleep, you think of those words. When you wake up to find it beside you, covered in dry blood, you think of those words. When you hear the rumors of the Vake hunting humans, you think of those words. 

"What do I need to do?" You ask her.

— 

You feel increasingly uncomfortable with the situation as you watch the Salt Lions take form. They are built fast, raising towards the roof. They remind you of the Guardians at the Avid Horizon.

The stone is anointed in Parabola, but more grounded in memories with help from the Flukes. The idea is sound. A place for the Masters to go and forget themselves for just a bit. It takes the stress off of you, off your Winking Isle. Memories are more powerful than dreams. It will work better. 

A drug that shows you where you would rather be. Nostalgia is powerful. You yourself tried it and it worked nicely. (You don't admit all you saw was yourself next to Veils.)

But why then are they adding doors with locks? Why are they steering you away from looking? Why are cats sweet-talking you? 

You feel something heavy growing in the pit of your stomach. You can't bring yourself to mention it to your co-workers.

You tell yourself you are worrying for nothing. 

—

_ This force knows what you can do, and what you can make with your tattered shell. _

—

The Serpents were there first, of course. You helped broker the deal between them and the Devils. The cats came much later, and although they did not have your approval, you didn't intervene.

You don't like to be worshiped. You would rather watch. You want Parabola to grow on its own. You can barely control it as it is, and that was your intention. You hatched from an egg who's inner shell was mirrored glass. You did not want to be a god. You coaxed it only when it needed it. 

The Second City respects dreams and you. You talk to them about Parabola. You try not to worry too much when the cats go to war. You try not to worry too much when one of the Sisters complains the sun is too dull. (You know they do not mean this personally. They don't even know what you are.)

The others don't like this City. The citizens are quick to talk back; the cats are worse. Children have started worshiping Storm. The sun was a major part of their culture and now they demand honey in bulk. Tensions are high. Many of your peers can't keep up with the demand for their goods. Even you are flooded with requests. 

And yet the Bazaar says that very little love stories are being found. You have to tear down signs at least once a day that give out warnings against falling in love.

You try and explain that their culture is naturally more withdrawn and it will take a bit for them to warm up to being more open in romantic endeavors, but you hear the other Masters talking behind your back.

When Veils slips into bed after being out all night, it smells like blood. You wait until you hear its breathing even out as it falls asleep, wings wrapped around you, and then you roll over to groom it. It purrs in its sleep, starts glowing with your own heartbeat.

You wish it would come to bed with you like it used to. You lay there, admiring how sleek its fur is, until it's time to get up to light the morning candles. 

— 

It only takes a few years for the Salt Lions to be completed. 

(You know the steps now. You have memorized this dance with damnation.)

That weight in your gut grows as you mount the steps to the new monuments. The others are at your side. 

The Sisters have been giving all of you samples of the stone. It has worked wonders. You could all share in memories of the High Wilderness, getting drunk off it like honey. 

(Veils laughed for the first time in years the first time the two of you had shared some.) 

Spices is irritable without the Sphinxstone. It takes the steps two at a time. Wines chides it, telling it the Lions won't be going anywhere.

You are the last one inside, but that means it looks like you are the last one to turn around when the door shuts. At first, no one tries to open it. They indulge themselves.

But you hesitate. You put a hand to the door. Find nothing but smooth stone. It pulls at your memories, tries to drag you into a dream.

"Wait," you try to stay. The word doesn't come out right. Your mouth feels like cotton. 

There is no handle on the inside. Veils doesn't notice why you are suddenly clawing at the door. It takes your hand. The two of you share a dream. 

—

It's darker in the Salt Lions than the darkness between stars. Something is wrong. 

It doesn't take long for the memories to become inaccurate, corrupted.

—

Iron is able to tell the Day even down here, even in the belly of the Lion. Before, its history of working with Logoi had made you uncomfortable, but now the innate connection it has to Law is the only thing keeping all of you sane. 

Pages works with Iron on carving a calendar into one of the walls. It's not exact, because down here things are warped and wrong. But it helps. 

Fires and Stones scrutinize the architecture for any weakness. Veils breaks a rib trying to break down the door and you have to hold it back from hurting itself worse.

"Here." Stones says, tapping a talon to a specific part of the wall. That's all the eleven of you need to hear. You all take turns breaking your claws down to the quick. A crack forms, then a hole. Blood stains the ground. All of you keep at it. 

It's a decade before you can even feel the smallest breeze from the hole, before you can smell the zee. 

It smells like—

—

(Salt.

Your name feels strange in the Neath. Even stranger when the humans say it. The reverence they speak it with cannot make up for the missing letters, missing sigils.

But you are missing things too. 

You could not enter without shrinking, without hurting. Only a little, the White had said. It felt like everything you had.

There are horrors being born and hidden here, the White told you. 

Bring it home, the White told you. 

You have to give up more to find it. You cannot sense your Twin like you should be able to. It had given up far more than you. You search the roof, the South, the North and East. Something prevents you from going too far West. You build a castle. You leave your name. You try again. 

Each time you get closer. Each time you leave more of yourself behind. 

Then you see it. It's… happy. It glows brighter than you had ever seen, despite how small and how weak it is. 

And you realize: you are a beacon. 

— No. You refuse.)

—

The dreams the Sphinxstone give are not Parabola. But they are connected, if barely, close like Irem where the stone was born. You exhaust yourself by pressing against the barrier between memory and dream. You cough up blood and quickly try and hide it. 

You weaken it, however, just as it weakens you. 

Veils is the first one who finds out. It tumbles into Parabola on accident. You feel it like a blade to your chest, tearing, opening. You realize it had done it when it blinks into dreams as you are choking on blood. 

You smile. 

It cannot stay there long, but when it returns, it's covered in blood and full. It had managed to catch and kill a couple from the Second City. It boasts and part of you hopes it teaches the people of the City fear again. 

It never gets easier. It hurts every time. And you must be awake for it. But you are able to give Veils its hunts again. 

—

It's Apples' turn at the wall, chipping away. It does it the same way it would cut meat, precise, measuring, and then a quick slice. Its claws dig deep, catch, and pull. 

You are idly watching its biceps tense and its muscles ripple while Veils shifts anxiously beside you. It had ripped off a whole nail during its previous turn at the wall that you had to bandage its hand in the tattered remains of your robe. You had forbid it from going hunting until it healed.

Then suddenly Apples yelps and tumbles backwards. You rush over to it. A dark, hairless paw reaches in. It claws at the ground. Another paw joins it. And then the whole cat wiggles though. 

"Maahes!" You chirp. It's lost weight and you realize it's had to starve itself to fit.

It brings food. Not much, and it cannot find passage often. But it does what it can. You ration food, making sure the strongest of you stays fit. Veils and Iron. Stones and Fires. Apples and Wines. Cups, Pages, and Spices. Then Mirrors and finally, you. When there's enough. 

Then Maahes surprises you by bringing mirror shards. Tiny things that give you just a hint at what is happening in Parabola. But Mirrors and you work together to collect them. If you can get one just big enough...

Meanwhile, the hole is slowly widened. After the first century, you can almost fit your head through it. Mirrors has a makeshift window to Parabola the size of its palm. All of you have lost weight. Except Veils. Who finds its way into Parabola whenever it can, just long enough to hunt.

Then, finally, the hole is big enough for you to just barely squeeze through. You break a bone or two shoving yourself through, skin catches on the edges and bleeds you, but then you take a breath of air.

"I'll bring back whatever I can." You promise.

It's not easy. You have to stay hidden. But you find people willing to barter with you. People who don't know who you are, or people who remember you from before. You smuggle back as much as you can carry: food, hand mirrors, whatever you think might help.

You have to make sure not to leave too often, at risk of getting caught and having the hole patched up. But it makes the next centuries easier. 

—

Look: an absence, a loss. This should not feel like a betrayal but it does. 

You are hungry too, but they are more so. You always put everyone else first, why should this be any different. Are you selfish? One life for all of theirs. It's fair. It's fair. It's fair. 

It’s always been fair. 

You own nothing, you know. Nothing is yours. You share everything and they take and take and take until you are shaking and cold. You don’t deserve it. They do. 

The blood in the water is fine and fair so long as the Flukes don’t starve. You run your fingers over your ribs and it’s fine and fair so long as you look up to see Veils’ pelt sleek. 

Even the Runt has its uses. 

So why do you feel so useless? Why do you dig and claw at the ground for scraps? There is nothing left for you, of you. You don’t need it. Your stomach eats away at itself. 

(There is someone else in your head with you. There always has been. A voice protecting you. But now it is loud and angry. It claws for control.)

Look: Veils sometimes allows you to lick the blood from its teeth. 

One day, you return to find the only thing you had missing, a necklace. They melted it down and chewed it up and spat it out. You didn’t deserve it anyway. You would have just let it waste away. You look down at the remains, trampled and torn, and think: at least it went to use.

So why do you dig your claws into the ground and try and gather up the remains? Why do you sob and yell and lash out against the walls? There is something in you trying to get out and you pull at your own ears and fur until Veils catches your hand.

(Gold drips like a fallen star. Like the molten necklace they drank down.)

“I found some seeds.” You say and everyone is staring. You open the satchel tied around your chest. Your eyes beg them to ignore the outburst. You don’t want to worry them. “We could plant them in the Amber.”

“There is no light.” Cups says, wiping its muddy hands on its robes. Mirrors is still trying to fit shards together. Just something big enough to use as an escape. (Wines had screeched once, “We are not the Devils!” And Veils had hit it, too. It bled gold, too. No one mentioned it.)

You smile. “That’s alright. I made a candle.”

No one mentions when the candle smells like rancid fat. No one mentions when you walk with a limp. No one mentions when Veils helps change the bandages on your thigh. No one mentions anything. 

— 

_ You know how to stop the intrusion. We all have to fight for our lives. _

—

Your reflection stares back at you. The lines of glass fit together imperfectly, causing the image to be splintered and awkward. You smear a drop of your blood into the cracks and fit the last shard in. 

The edges are jagged, but propped up against the wall, it's large enough that even Veils could stoop through it. 

You smell the jungles of Parabola. Your ears twitch. You exhale. "I can open the way. But the Orts demand payment." 

There is no mirror on that side yet. This is a new door. Even you must get permission. It is a delicate process to make something new like this, harder still when it is made out of  _ parts _ . The Fingerkings are not keen on trusting, now. Not after the Cats. 

"I'll pay." Says Mirrors. 

"You have nothing." Cups hisses, as if reminding it. "We all have  _ nothing _ ."

"I have the Wind."

The box rattles from its place where it's been shoved into a corner since Mirrors removed it from its harness around its chest. You finish painting the sigil on the mirror. 

A hissing echoes around the chamber. Their attention is caught.

"Only two of us will be allowed passage." Mirrors translates. You understand it too and nod. Mirrors goes to retrieve the Claiming Wind. 

"Veils." You glance up at it.

"I would be honored." Its fur puffs out and it fans its wings slightly. You shake your head, fondly.

"It is settled then. Veils and I will find a Third City."

Wines glances between you and Veils. "I'll keep everything under control here." It says. 

"Thank you. No one else could handle that burden." You smile.

—

From Parabola, Veils and you split up to find any mirrors that connect to the Surface. This is not ideal. Usually you make the Masters work in pairs, especially when dealing with Parabola. But you don't have time. A Third City must be found before your co-workers starve.

Your wings have never been tested as much as they are now. They are not used to the weight of gravity, nor the different temperatures and weather the Surface offers. You are alone for years, slipping into various cities and learning their cultures, until a bat brings you a message from Veils. The messenger bat smells like rain.

(You need one just as desperate as you. This proves to be a challenge.)

Veils' note simply has the symbol for "return with haste". You find the nearest mirror and slip back to the Salt Lions. Veils is already there, dressed in feathers and bones. You can feel pride radiating from it.

"Veils found a Third City!" Wines chirps. 

Veils flashes a smile that is all teeth at you. The blue feathers in its fur look beautiful. 

It starts telling you all about how it chased rumors like they were birds, how it caught them in its jaws and grew fat, how it found a city that knew of your kind and the Neath. You all listen to it tell tales of how they call it Camazotz, of how they believe it and its brethren gods of their Underworld. It sounds too good to be true. 

“How did you find it? You said it is across the ocean?” Wines asks.

“The Great Game is played everywhere. One of my contacts had heard of it.”

This seems strange but you trust Veils. 

(You cannot help but recall the old man and his eyes like the sun. The woods at winter. The— )

No. All Shall Be Well.

“You have been working with them, then? Are there love stories to be had?” You ask. 

Spices glares at you and mumbles under its breath, “What does that matter? We need  _ out _ .”

Veils rolls its eyes, twisting a ring around its finger. “More than here, no doubt. It is a grand city. They love their gods and culture. They love as much as anyone.”

You furrow your brows and open your mouth to ask more — but then you see the ribs on all your friends (is that what you are calling them now?). You close your mouth. Wines glances at you, speaks instead, “You will broker the deal then. Have you any idea what they may want?”

“I will speak to the priests and form an agreement,” says Veils.

“We await your return.” You reply.

—

You do not see the Contract. Wines and Veils are handling it while you have to play messenger to the Messenger. She agrees a new City is needed, it is far past due. But because of your absence, She had needed to produce more Lacre to keep the Stone Pigs asleep. You will have to move tons of the Lacre to wake the Pigs so that they can grind up the Second City to fertilize the coming Third. 

It keeps you busy. (Keeps you blind.)

Veils returns wearing a headdress. It doesn't try to stay hidden anymore. It hunts people of the Second City. It has something held beneath its arm, covered in thick fabric.

"A gift from the Priests. To show their goodwill." Veils tells you.

It's a mirror. Black and gold. Polished volcanic stone. With it, all of you can leave the Salt Lions. It's already whole so there is no need to have the Fingerkings help. It already has its other half in Parabola. 

You ask how negations are going. It tells you it delivered the first version of the Contract. If all goes well, no changes will have to be made. You nod. Veils is doing exceptionally well at this, despite it being its first time. You are surprised at it, really. 

—

For the first time in two dozen centuries, all eleven of you step back into the Bazaar.

It will also be the last time.

—

Veils returns again and disappears into the Bazaar's Heart with Wines. You only hear about it later, when you ask: "How did it go?" 

Veils replies, "You weren't there." (You should have been. You are the one who usually does this. But you were too busy trying to help others.) When you tilt your head to the side, Veils shakes its own head. "The Bazaar agreed to the terms. We have settled on a payment agreement."

"What is it?" 

Veils pretends to examine its claws. You can barely read most Curators; Veils is even more difficult. Something passes across its face too fast for you to understand. There is a breath of hesitation. 

"They want to taste golden blood."

Higher flesh. The blood of a god. You look at your own wrist. Your fur is still dull and thin from malnutrition. You can see your veins. "How much?" 

"There are only three Head Priests. They only need a little." 

You know of your deficiency. You know you are a Runt but you are  _ not _ useless. Nothing is useless. This is your use. 

And if it all goes wrong? Veils is there with you. Veils will sew you back together.

"Alright." 

Veils smiles (smirks) at you like you're the sun (or perhaps part of its hoard). It hands you a ritual mask. You take it gently, admiring the contrast of the black obsidian against your white fingers. Veils has a similar one. 

—

(Understand: you've never been alone.) You have always had a connection to your Twin, but there is something else. You know that. But sometimes there is a voice in your head that is not your own. It wants to protect you. (Don't worry.) It wants you safe. It wants you strong. (There is so much that wants to hurt you.)

But why does it have to bring up the past to teach you? (Do you recall?) Why does it knock at your ribs in a sevenfold rhythm. It's the Correspondence. To force an opening. But you are scared of this part of you. (I'll be here when you need me. When everything becomes too much, I'll be here.) 

—

You were so busy saving everyone else, you couldn’t save yourself. 

Veils presses itself to your back, wings wrapped around you as it nuzzles you. You blink sluggishly in the early morning light of the Surface. You want to stay like this just a bit longer. Veils doesn't try and get you to move, either. This is the most at ease either of you have been for ages. 

The sun is raising and Veils presses its face to your neck as the light falls over both of you. It holds up a wing to block it out. You chuckle. "We should get going." 

Veils shudders strangely, but it pulls you from your perch in the ceiling and tugs you down to the ground. It doesn't seem to want to release you. It stays pressed up against you, claws twined together with yours. 

"Candles." It breathes. Your name shimmers in the Correspondence, burning. It says your name like it would say a Judgement's.

"Veils." You return, with just as much adoration and worship as you can. 

It looks away. 

It steps back then, and you reach up to cradle it's cheek. You smile. It hands you your mask and puts on its own. Then it takes your hand and leads you out of the cave to the stairs of the temple. 

(— You don't want to remember.)

"Stop worrying." Veils says. 

"Just stay with me." You ask.

"I won’t look away." And it wasn’t even a lie. Veils would watch the whole thing. Hoard it.

(Stop.)

Veils hands you a vial. "So you can sleep through it." It had tasted too sweet.

Here, you learned people can lie: the Courier, the Singer, the Priests. 

(Why did it take you so long?)

You don't understand why you need chains if they are only taking a little. You don't understand why you can still feel them. You don't understand why Veils wraps a hand around your throat and begs you: "Please, Candles, just go to  _ sleep _ . It will be easier that way." You don't understand why Veils traces the Correspondence sigil for “two lovers interminably devouring each other” onto your wing.

You cannot move. But you can  _ scream _ .

(There is nothing to be gained from remembering.)

— 

You leave your body in the same way you came to inhabit it. 

Your Light is ripped away from you. Your crown of antlers and your robes of fur are removed. Your Egg hasn't needed you for a long time. 

You are falling. (You are being reborn.)

You feel everything you ever had and ever will all at once. Past, present, future; this is your Event Horizon. This is everything. This is nothing. 

(You will never feel real again.)

Gold blood (“Oh Vake, look how the sun pours from the skin!”), a stone altar (“Remove the soul first.” “It won’t budge.” “Useless. Fine. Here’s a knife.”). The God-Eaters and the Knives and the Pool (“Don’t let a drop of blood be wasted.”). 

Skin peeled back carefully, hands so gentle as they bled you. They picked out each tooth and hung your pelt up. They admired the way your lungs shuddered and they washed your bones of your gore. Every string of sinew was sucked down, every drop of blood collected and drank. They got drunk off your meat, fat off your marrow. 

You were delicious.

—

And here it is: your end. (Did you really think you would last longer?)

—

(Judgements cannot see the Neath. They know of it, but it is a dangerous, hidden place. Sol uses it to hide its own sins, to forget them. 

But Names are Power. Names are Attention. And the White is listening.

When you failed, when you turned away, He dangles power and worship above the jaws of the Hunter and the Hunter bends (does not break).

Yet, for all of this, He did not give the Hunter a Courtesy. He wants to be able to sense that broken Law when the Gate Opens.

But you are something He did not account for. Sometimes even Judgements encounter something unpredictable. There is no Sequence for this.

When the Gate opens, you will be ready. The White will come to try and bring Light to th Neath, to fulfil His Law. And you will fight back.

You and your Twin will not be used again.) 

—

(There is nothing left of you.)

(Except those that Seek you.)

(But maybe, someday, there can be more again.)

—

_ Everyone hear the call to the firewall. _


End file.
